


My Boss From Hell

by Froggy_Horntail



Category: Metalocalypse, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggy_Horntail/pseuds/Froggy_Horntail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quite a few years ago, Charles Offdensen was sent to Earth to make a special deal with five demigod rockstars. But when he becomes accustomed to living the good life that heavy metal offers, and starts protecting his "boys" from being claimed long past their contract's expiration date, his superiors are definitely not pleased...and they think it's about time someone had a little evaluation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tikistitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/gifts), [lizzysledgehammer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lizzysledgehammer).



> Dedicated to my IRL best friend, and my buddies from Tumblr Tikistitch and LizzySledgeHammer, without whom none of this insanity would have been made possible. Best friend started me shipping Crowdensen (though it isn't as blatantly mentioned in THIS fic, this is moreso framing it), Tiki opened the door to crossover it, and Lizzy only encouraged it. I am the captain of the Titanic of Bad Ideas and if I'm going down with this ship I'm taking you all down with me. Ain't none of that sacrificial door-floating Jack and Rose shit goin' on here, no no.
> 
> AIN'T NO TIME-TRAVELIN' BALTHAZARS TO SAVE YOU NOW!
> 
> (Also, all artwork that appears in this story is by the author unless otherwise specified, a-thank you~)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles gets a very unexpected phone call...

Charles Foster Offdensen wouldn't be the first to tell you that the life of a band manager was a hard one, let alone for the most popular heavy metal band on the entire planet.  
  
It was an endless stream of paperwork, of waivers and lawsuits and contracts all written in the tedious, mind-numbing language of legalese. It was long hours spent looking over your shoulder and at hi-tech monitors, always waiting on the alert for the next deranged military insurgent or fan attack. It was enduring constant threats of physical violence and verbal and emotional abuse from the very band members that you had helped elevate to their godlike status. It was constantly cleaning up their messes whether it was vomit in the hall from last night's bender or the entire state of Florida. It was maintaining a brutal image and repairing reputations.  
  
But at the end of the day, he WOULD be the first to tell you that it was the most rewarding job he'd ever done in his entire life.  
  
Some would say that must mean he's had some pretty shitty jobs in the past.  
  
They had no idea.  
  
There was a light _fwump_ and shuffling of paper as he dropped his last file into the tray on the edge of his desk, and Charles sighed, feeling oddly content with himself. That was the last advanced pain waiver he'd had to review and approve. Out of the forty-three he'd seen today alone.  
  
Yes...it was a damn hard job. But someone had to do it, and damn if he didn't enjoy the little perks that it earned him.  
  
Speaking of...  
  
He opened the lower right desk drawer and pulled out a wide snifter glass and a burnished bottle that looked to be older than he was, pouring himself a drink before settling back in his office chair with a soft creak of dark leather. Taking a sip, his brilliant green eyes were reflected back at him in the large bay window as he gazed out across the massive compound. The sun was already setting behind the many sharpened spires of Mordhaus, turning the smoky sky a brilliant shade of amber and casting long shadows across the yard where the wolves milled about.

One good thing about this desolate deathtrap, you simply couldn't beat the sunsets.  
  
Just as Charles was finally starting to relax, eyes lidding as he let the warmth of the alcohol flow through him, the phone on his desk rang shrilly, demanding his attention.  
  
He sighed, tilting his head into his palm in frustration, his good mood already dissipating. It never failed. Every time, just when he thought he could unwind, another fire was ignited that HE had to put out. Wearily, he turned back around and decided to check the caller I.D., to determine whether he should take this call and deal with it now, or let it go to voicemail and he could put the fire out later, per se (or at least get one of the Klokateers to do it). Charles WAS nothing but professional and vigilant, after all, but even he deserved five minutes of time to himself.  
  
He raised an eyebrow curiously. That was odd. No number was displayed. Normally, he had the Gears filter out those kinds of "protected" numbers, collection agencies, spam calls, blackmailers, that sort of thing, and the boys weren't astute enough to try and hide their prank calls. And he knew for a fact none of his "special contacts" would use a landline if they could avoid it.  
  
...so how on earth could this one have slipped through the cracks?  
  
With a shrug, he picked it up, swirling the dark liquid in his glass a bit idly as he watched the yardwolves out of the corner of his eye below the window. It was probably just some twerpish hacker who got lucky. No doubt he'd hear a set of extraction teams converging in on the poor idiot shortly, but there was never any harm in double-checking.  
  
"...hello?"  
  
And then there was an accented voice he'd hoped to never to hear again come from the receiver.  
  
 _"'Ello, Charlie. Haven't heard from you in SUCH a long time. How are things~?"_  
  
A sour burn rose at the back of his throat as he nearly choked on his mouthful of brandy. Taking a few deep breaths through his nose to compose himself, he swallowed, before addressing the caller in a surprisingly even tone.  
  
"Crowley."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a fateful phone call, Charles is forced to have an encounter with someone he's none too happy to see.

The line went dead not moments after, and even so, he still loosely held onto the receiver. 

Waiting.

Holding his breath.

From behind him, a rather low, gruff, English-accented voice made a huffing sound in obvious annoyance. Charles could even imagine the eye-rolling along with it.

"Oh come on, what d'you want me to DO, make a gaudy entrance like at one of your little concerts with the flickering lights and fog and shit?"  
It was the same voice from the phone.

Charles prided himself on keeping a strict level of emotional control, no matter the situation. As such, when a pair of hands suddenly gripped the top of his chair, he betrayed no sign of surprise, merely raising an eyebrow when he was roughly spun around, coming face to face with a shorter man, his somewhat scruffy mess of stubble clashing with an otherwise immaculately kept black suit.

The man smirked at him, dark eyes glittering. "Hello, darling. As I said, it's been a while."

"Not, ah, not long enough, in my opinion."

"Eh, well, that's what they all say." Casually, he released the manager's chair before he took a few sauntering steps around the edge of the massive desk, sucking at his bottom lip and nodding as he surveyed the spacious office. "Well well. You've made yourself quite a pretty nest here, haven't you, Charlie?" He picked up the glass of brandy, taking a sniff, eyes widening slightly. "Oh yes, I'd definitely say you're living the good life."

Charles initially said nothing, but he still never took his gaze off him. Though he seemed calm, it was taking every shred of will to keep some semblance of composure, and not just because this 'Crowley' had instantly appeared with neither rhyme nor reason in his office.

Even so, he could feel a cold sweat starting to break out on his skin, just under his own suit.

He had a past with this man. A past he wasn't particularly fond of remembering.

Sitting up a little straighter in his seat, he watched him as he boredly took a swig from the brandy bottle, before wandering over and taking an apparent interest in his fencing award from college.

"Tell me why you're here, Crowley."

The other man seemed not to acknowledge Charles save for a nonchalant shrug, abandoning the bottle before picking up a rather elegant letter opener engraved with the Dethklok logo instead. Nimble fingers idly tracing the sharpened edge. "What, I can't look up a former employee and check in? See how they're doing at their new job? I mean, clearly, that must be what this is."

Charles didn't respond.

"Would've been nice to get two weeks notice from you first, but then again-..." Something hardened behind that dark gaze, and Crowley suddenly slammed the point of the letter opener deep into the wooden surface of the desk, hard enough to make it vibrate. "...-you always were a _slippery_ one, Charlie." He practically hissed the last part.

"That is mahogany." He snapped right back, rather coldly.

"Oh, is it now? My apologies." With that, Crowley dug the blade in a little deeper.

Charles was rapidly losing patience, and it didn't help that the tension was LITERALLY being cut into with a knife at this point. Taking a deep breath, he fixed him with a steely look. 

"All right, I tried being civil. Now tell me, what do you REALLY want, Crowley?"

This finally seemed to set something off. "What do I WANT?" Crowley downright seemed to snarl, his teeth bared as he suddenly reappeared back in front of the manager, leaning in close and gripping the arms of the chair hard enough that his knuckles turned white. 

"What the fuck d'you think I want, that I come all the way out to this damned fortress you've holed up in, you pathetic little worm? I WANT what should have been mine years ago!" He was yelling at this point, his face contorted with rage.

A muscle twitched near Charles's eye.

"...and...ah, just what do you think I have that could possibly belong to you?"

But just before he could answer, a voice called out from the open doorway, a familiar head of eyebrow piercings and shaggy red dreadlocks peeking around the frame.

"Hey Ahfdensen! Dood, Charles! Nat'an an' I wanna know if-...uh-...oh, sorry, didn' know you were havin' a meetin', er, y'know, whatever..."

"Pickles, did you ask him?"

"No, uh, he's like...in a meetin' or some shit. I dunno, dood."

Pickles was soon joined by the wide frontman Nathan, who peered over suspiciously at the stranger, his expression unreadable.

"Huh. Meeting, right."

Crowley glanced over his shoulder as they were interrupted by the two Dethklok members, and just like that, his composure returned, the rage replaced with nothing but charisma. Straightening, he smoothed a nonexistant crease in his suit, giving a rather nasty smirk to the manager, muttering quietly to him before turning to address the two bandmates.

"Oh, I think you know EXACTLY what I've come to claim, Charlie."

Charles briefly cast his eyes upward, groaning internally to himself.

_Why me?_


End file.
